


Fake It Til You Make It

by least_common_variant



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship, and also to Bitty's, in which Jack is somewhat oblivious to his own emotions, past Jack Zimmermann/Camilla Collins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-13 23:03:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7141772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/least_common_variant/pseuds/least_common_variant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another deep breath, and he opened the door; the Samwell Alumni Association Senior Meet-And-Greet Cocktail Party - in other words, two hours of Jack's personal hell - awaited inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fake It Til You Make It

**Author's Note:**

> ...inspired by [this picture ](http://www.imdb.com/media/rm3207304192/nm0093589?ref_=nmmi_mi_tt_sf_3) (and I will hear no talk of anyone but Matt Bomer for the fancast for Jack) and an absolutely horrible night I had in grad school...

Jack had the door handle in his hand when he paused, not quite ready to go into the ballroom at the student commons just yet. He just needed a moment to collect himself before going in, really. He glanced down at his tuxedo - everything seemed right, at least, but from the wide-eyed look Bittle gave him when he asked for help with the bow tie, he must have looked as awkward in it as he felt. There was nothing he could do about that, except to fiddle with the cuffs one more time. He took a deep breath.

This is basically doing media, he reminded himself. Same routine. Don't be yourself, yourself is a hockey robot. Be positive, no matter what. Fake a smile if you have to. If you can't be honest, be vague. They just want to talk to you. Most of them probably aren't even hockey people. And you're going to have to get used to it. Think of it as practice…

Another deep breath, and he opened the door; the Samwell Alumni Association Senior Meet-And-Greet Cocktail Party - in other words, two hours of Jack's personal hell - awaited inside.

\---------

The meet-and-greet was an exclusive event, black-tie dress required. "Select" alumni - by which they meant (generally) old people who had given a lot of money to Samwell in the past year - were invited to meet "select" seniors - by which they meant students near the top of the Dean's List, leaders of campus clubs, others generally regarded to be the epitome of Samwell excellence, and successful athletes, which meant Jack; even Shitty, bound for Harvard Law, didn't qualify. There was, needless to say, absolutely nothing he'd less enjoy doing on any given night. There was, needless to say, absolutely nothing he could do to get out of it.

It was as bad as he'd been afraid of. He was right that most of them were, in fact, not hockey people - under normal circumstances. But Samwell making the Frozen Four and the media hoopla surrounding his signing with the Falconers had made waves outside the usual hockey circles. Jack was probably the most well-known athlete to graduate from Samwell... ever? In a long time, at least, and it seemed like all the alumni present at the party wanted to meet-and-greet _him_ , specifically. He'd lost count of how many hands he'd shaken, how many photos he'd posed for, how many times he'd been asked if he was excited to be graduating next week ("Yes, of course"), if he was excited to be going to Providence ("Yes, of course"), if his father was proud of him ("Yes, of course"). Sometimes there was a little variation: he was asked if his father would have rather he'd signed with Montreal ("Maybe, but he made it clear it was my decision."), if he was glad he'd chosen Samwell over some university with a more prominent hockey program ("I think Samwell was exactly what I needed."). Some of the alumni chatted about golf instead of the NHL, which was a nice change of pace, and there was one man in the room who had actually served in World War 2 and wanted to hear about his thesis, which was an even nicer one. Jack probably could have talked to him for the rest of the evening, but the event coordinator nudged him with a reminder to keep conversations brief so everyone could circulate.

But he couldn't shake one more hand right now if his life depended on it. Most of the students in the room were people he didn't know well; chatting with them wasn't likely to be any better, and would probably draw the ire of the event coordinator again. His best bet for getting a moment to himself, short of hiding in the bathroom for the rest of the night (which was starting to sound like a good idea)... aha; he started back toward the buffet table.

He put a few strawberries on a plate. The selection of Things On Toothpicks - cheese cubes, meatballs, bacon-wrapped crab legs, tiny sausages, wasn't there some way to put chicken tenders on toothpicks? - seemed a little greasier than he thought he could tolerate right now, and the dessert table was uninspiring. Two-bite pecan pies? Bittle would not approve of the size, and the idea of eating someone else's pie felt a little strange somehow anyways. Cookies? Almost certain to not be as good as Bittle's. None of it was likely to be as good as Bittle's, he thought as he turned away from the sweets, and he probably shouldn't have the sugar anyw…

His reflexes, honed by years of playing a contact sport, kicked in midway through the thought: a body was coming towards him at faster-than-expected velocity. At a glance, he spotted Camilla Collins, in the process of stumbling; he reached out his free hand to steady her. She smiled at him weakly, took a sip from her glass, and then a camera flash went off at precisely the wrong moment: a girl wearing a "Press" badge got a shot of them looking like the world's most awkward prom couple. The photographer - he was pretty sure he recognized her from the Daily, it could have been worse - gave a thumbs-up, and went off to another part of the room.

"Umm. Hi, Camilla." He paused for a moment, then added, "You look good." She really did, honestly; the dress she was wearing showed off her arms, and somehow her hair had come through her near-fall absolutely unmussed; she hadn't even sloshed her drink much.

"Thank you. These shoes are terrible, though - that was the second time I tripped on my own feet tonight."

All he could think of to say to that was "Oh. Sorry." He was saved from any further awkwardness by one of the alumni approaching him - apparently break time was over. This one, at least, had something new to talk about. "Jack Zimmermann, right? How's your mother? I had a few classes with her back in the day. Everyone had such a crush on her... your dad was a lucky man to have caught her." "Yes, sir, he thinks so too..."

\----

A half hour later, as the students and alumni alike dispersed, he walked out the front door alone. But Camilla was sitting on a bench nearby, with her shoes off. She greeted him with a friendly "Hey."

"Hey," he replied. He sat on the bench next to her, and exhaled with a sigh. "We're going to be in the Swallow again, no matter who that photographer was there for. They want us to be together so badly..."

"Almost as badly as I did," she said. "Can you blame them? My legs, your butt, circulation would go through the roof every time they ran a picture..."

She was smiling - chirping him, Jack supposed - but he wasn't feeling it. "Camilla, I'm... I'm sorry things didn't work out. You're a great athlete, and a terrific person. But there was no spark, you know?"

Camilla grimaced a little. "Yeah... I have to say kissing you was one of the least sparktastic experiences I've ever had with my tongue in someone's mouth. No offense." A small group of women exited the building, and she waved to get their attention. "That's my housemates..." She slipped back into her shoes and got up from the bench. "I hope you find someone you do make sparks with, Jack. You're kind of a terrific person too."

"Thanks. That means a lot..." He stood as well; the not-quite-dance where they tried to figure out if they were going to hug or not was resolved in favor of "Yes, a friendly one, three shoulder pats", and she walked off to join her friends. He might never see her again after next week, he realized. He might never see anyone from Samwell again after next week, no matter how everyone promised to stay in touch, and that thought brought him to the brink of panic - but it was interrupted when his phone vibrated.

He calmed himself, and checked the display:  
From: Bittle, 10:15 PM: hope you survived the alumni.  
From: Bittle, 10:16 PM: studying was a bust tonight.  
From: Bittle, 10:16 PM: baked maple-glazed apple. I'll defend it from Holster until you get home.

Pie. That was just what he needed... and Bittle always seemed to bake maple-glazed apple when Jack was stressed. He was so thoughtful like that, wasn't he? 

Jack started back to the Haus, smiling for real for the first time all night.


End file.
